


Where the Worm Dieth Not

by TonicHoliday



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Curses, Duelling, Gen, Hanging, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:29:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TonicHoliday/pseuds/TonicHoliday
Summary: The corpses hanging from the trees decayed unusually slowly. Some appeared centuries old, their armour rusted or uniforms crumbling to dust and tatters. Knights. Soldiers. Honourable men. Yet they all died cowardly deaths, Lascelles assumed.Some of the men Lascelles duelled were swallowed by the undergrowth. Others lie prone on the grass for weeks, months, until he tired of looking at them and hung them with the others.





	Where the Worm Dieth Not

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verecunda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/gifts).



The bullet propelled the young soldier backwards as it pierced his ribcage, lodging somewhere inside. Lascelles approached the body curiously. This man, who choked and gurgled pathetically at his feet, possibly fought at Waterloo. There was blood on his uniform, caked dark on its silver frogging. He stared up at Lascelles from the grass, no fear in his eyes, no plea passing his lips. If anything, he looked grateful. It was no concern of Lascelles’ if the soldier wanted to die; that was his own foolishness. It did nothing to lessen the sense of achievement of winning the duel.  

Lascelles kicked the pistol from the soldier’s limp hand. It skittered across the snowy grass towards the tower.

 

~~~

 

He shot one of the largest serpents. It did not die but fell limply from its branch onto the dirt below. Lascelles stared without pity as it writhed. Inky blood oozed from a wound about the size of its eye while its mouth opened and closed in silent agony.

Squatting beside it, he withdrew his knife. It made a high-pitched sound when he sliced at it, like a skeletal street cat wailing for food. He carved a shape into its scales, wrote his name along its belly with the tip of the blade.

He was disappointed when it finally died.

 

~~~

 

The horse bolted when the shots fired. Just as before, Lascelles and his challenger were twenty feet apart for the duel. The dark-haired man was a vagabonding type, not the kind of low person Lascelles would usually call out.

He had no time to toy with the corpse. The moment the man’s body met with the snowy earth, it was overcome with fresh green shoots and pale tangling roots sprouting from the soil. After a few minutes, there was no body left to inspect.

Funny, Lascelles thought. He was sure he had seen something of the sort before.

 

~~~

 

If he stared long and hard enough, the undergrowth took the form of bodies. It was not shadows from the corpses hanging above. There was nothing buried beneath the powdery snow.

Every now and then a serpent would slink through the grass, rustle the patterns and break his concentration. But when he really tried, he could see them.

 

~~~

 

The corpses hanging from the trees decayed unusually slowly. Some appeared centuries old, their armour rusted or uniforms crumbling to dust and tatters. Knights. Soldiers. Honourable men. Yet they all died cowardly deaths, Lascelles assumed.

Some of the men Lascelles duelled were swallowed by the undergrowth. Others lie prone on the grass for weeks, months, until he tired of looking at them and hung them with the others.

 

~~~

 

“Where do they go?” His voice echoed from the tower, the question bouncing between the trees and all the way to the stone figures guarding the glade’s entrance. He had never questioned the Lady before.

Her reply was not spoken with a tongue; it was formed by the twisting vines, the wind rustling amidst leaves that no seasons altered, and the shrill clitter of tortured serpents.

“You will speak only the words I gave you, little man.”

 

~~~

 

“I am the Champion of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart,” Lascelles announced, eyes pleading as he raised his pistol. His soul screamed a thousand things his mouth could not release.

When the challenger’s ball struck his breast, the relief was instantaneous. He welcomed the pain and awaited the vegetation’s embrace. Now there was only darkness, the gentle sound of the brook, and the breeze to comfort him as he was released.

The challenger’s heavy footsteps startled him. He went to open his eyes and look upon the face of the man who finally freed him, but he could not.

It had been some time since he drew breath, Lascelles realised. The pain remained in his breast, burning bright and wild like fire beneath his skin.

He felt the man’s warm fingers pry the pistol from his hand. As he bent over him, Lascelles felt the man’s long greasy hair drag across his face. For the first time, he noticed the snow’s sapping cold.

 

~~~

 

Days later, the man hoisted Lascelles from the place where his body perished.

Lascelles felt the man’s hands at his waist, the prod of his bony shoulder in his gut while he carried him. The fire in his breast had not extinguished. It had spread to his mind, taunting him with the thought of eternity, trapped within a body wracked with pain that he could no longer control.

Lascelles felt the thick briar encircle his neck, its thorns piercing sensitive flesh. He felt the weight of his own corpse against it as it pulled taught, choking a throat that need not breathe again. He felt everything, and he would feel it forever.


End file.
